Raven Magic

by Jennifer Willis

  Maybe, despite all the show Frigga made of training and grooming Sally, the truth was that her role as the Rune Witch wasn’t all that important.

  Sally shook the thought away. She was here now. She remembered what Niall had taught her about working with the land: Soil is soil, no matter where it comes from. It might have a different flavor, but earth elements the world over served much the same purpose.

  She got up from her pack and unzipped the main compartment to confirm that her two bottles of soil were in place and sealed tight. One tiny jar was filled with dirt from the base of the White Oak Yggdrasil that sat on Odin’s property. The other held the rich earth Sally had scooped up from outside the Oweynagat cave in Ireland, where Sally had last seen Freyr’s shade. Both were secure.

  “Good idea to double-check.” Opal unzipped her own lightweight hiking pack and checked its contents. Her pack was full of empty bottles held in place by strips of black elastic sewn onto felt-covered boards. Side pockets were stuffed with plastic bags and a few grease pencils. Opal was stocked for an extended sampling spree.

  “You know we don’t have to bring everything back with us.” Sally nodded toward Opal’s impeccably organized mobile laboratory. “We can always come back later, if you need something.”

  “Or find another source closer to home,” Opal recited with a familiar edge to her voice. “Yeah, I know. Frigga’s been saying the same thing. But I can’t help it.” Opal checked the batteries in her handheld GPS device—so she could log the location of every plant they were to learn about.

  Sally scanned her own supplies—flashlight, water bottles, sleeping bag, knife, Book of Shadows, clean underwear. Her parents had insisted on helping her pack. It had taken a few years, but Sally had finally told them the truth about her magick and her role as the Rune Witch—first, attempting the revelation on her own, and then with backup from Freya and Frigga.

  To say that her parents had been stunned would have been an understatement. At first, they gave Sally a wide berth when she was home in Portland, especially at night; Sally hadn’t yet told them that a witch is just as strong in the light as in the dark. She’d overheard their whispered conversations about whether she might need rehab—or worse, a psychiatrist. And then they’d peppered her with questions.

  Did being a Rune Witch mean that Sally was going to Hell, to Heaven, or to Valhalla? What exactly was a rune? Could she turn the chairman of the rotary club into a toad? Was Odin running a Viking biker cult? Did Sally go flying around on a broomstick on Halloween? If Sally was the Rune Witch, did that mean that somewhere there was a Candle Witch or a Wand Witch or a Crystal Witch, too?

  Sally was curious about that last question herself, but she hadn’t yet gotten a straight answer from anyone at the Lodge.

  It had been exhausting. Sally was relieved when it had come time to return to Dublin for her spring term. And a few months into Sally’s second semester abroad, her parents stopped texting, emailing, and Skyping at all hours to ask about magick wands and inquire after her safety.

  It was a sudden shift, and Sally puzzled over what had finally gotten her parents to relax: An invitation to Odin’s Lodge for the nine-day festival of Walpurgis and Thrimilci—complete with bonfires, feasts from Frigga’s hearth, and endless steins of spiked mead—had done wonders to bring her parents into the outer circle of the Norse fold.

  Now the Dahls—buttoned-down, proper citizens of Portland’s conservative minority—sported bumper stickers like “Keep Portland Weird,” “Odin For President!” and “My Other Car is a Broom” on their vehicles. And they’d combed through the Portland State University course catalog to highlight classes they thought would support Sally in her training. At the top of their list were Scandinavian Myths and Legends, Ancient Norwegian 101, Modern American Alternative Religions, and an environmental protection seminar series.

  But Sally had an entire summer to get through before she would start at PSU as a sophomore. She zipped up her pack.

  “What do you think our guide will be like?” Opal asked. “Obviously, someone knowledgeable, a master of herbs and traditional lore.” Opal touched each of her empty bottles before closing up her pack. Sally had no doubt Opal would be the star student of the expedition.

  Sally was nervous about being led into the woods by someone she didn’t know—even a guide hand-picked by Freya. She’d need time on her own to complete her private memorial for Freyr, and she didn’t like the idea of a stranger watching over her shoulder while she honored her fallen friend.

  “I just hope it’s someone who isn’t too strict,” Sally said.

  Opal laughed. “You make it sound like we’ve been sent to see the principal. I think we’ll be put through our paces, though.”

  Sally frowned. Was their guide going to demand that they make—and eat—an indigenous salad to prove they’d been paying attention to what was poisonous and what wasn’t?

  Opal pulled her long, dark hair back into a ponytail and secured it with an elastic tie. She made the unconscious motion of pushing her glasses up her nose—an old habit that remained even after her laser eye surgery six months earlier. Opal’s face brightened as she looked over Sally’s shoulder, and Sally glanced back to find Frigga approaching.

  “How was your soak, then?” the goddess asked.

  “It was awesome!” Opal tugged at her sagging socks. “I’d love to come back and do it again.”

  Frigga nodded. “That might be arranged. What about you, Sally dear?”

  Sally shrugged. Most of the nausea had passed, but she was still feeling uncomfortably warm. “It was good,” she said.

  Frigga’s smile faded at Sally’s flat tone. “I take it the hot spring didn’t agree with you.” She rested a hand on Sally’s shoulder. “The waters seep into your skin to rid you of impurities as you embark on your journey, and to prepare you for new wisdom. Not everyone will have the same reaction, of course.” Frigga knelt in the dirt next to Sally. “What are your symptoms?”

  Sally forced a smile. “Maybe I just didn’t sleep too well last night.” She gestured toward Opal. “You know how excited we are.”

  Frigga studied Sally’s face, and the Rune Witch tried not to squirm under the goddess’s intense gaze. Finally, Frigga rose to her feet. “This is an important next step in your training.”

  Opal nodded with enthusiasm. She was three years older than Sally, and she’d benefited from Frigga’s tutelage while Sally was in Ireland. She’d stood bravely against Managarm at the Battle of the White Oak Yggdrasil to protect both Odin’s Lodge and the World Tree. Long before that, when Sally was a fledgling witch who hadn’t even dreamed of meeting a Norse immortal in the flesh, Opal had proven herself a dedicated witch, and a good friend.

  But seeing Opal bask in Frigga’s favor rubbed Sally the wrong way. Sally was the Rune Witch, not Opal. Shouldn’t Sally be the sole focus of Frigga’s attention? Or was Opal being groomed as Sally’s replacement? The Rune Witch was born, not appointed, and it supposedly wasn’t unusual for the mantle to skip many generations before landing again on a young witch’s shoulders. Sally didn’t think she could just be replaced. But Sally was still in the doghouse for her rebellions along the way—like smuggling Køjer Devils scales out of Norway, and for not asking for help sooner when things started going wrong in Dublin.

  “Before you head off into the forest today,” Frigga continued, now resting her hands on her generous hips. “I think the time has come to officially install Opal as the Assistant Rune Witch.”

  Opal’s face fell. “Assistant Rune Witch? What does that even mean?”

  Frigga reached up and patted her short, black hair. She turned to Sally. “Opal will assist you in your magickal work. It’s an unorthodox approach, you might say, as there’s never been such an office before. But you can’t argue that Opal doesn’t deserve it. She can help you by doing research, preparing your more basic oils and brews, fetching your supplies. That sort of thing.”

  Opal rose slowly to her feet. �
��Fetching her supplies?” she asked in disbelief. “Preparing her more basic brews?”

  Sally’s stomach twisted, and she shook her head. “Yeah, I don’t think that’s the kind of help I need.”

  Opal’s mouth fell open as her eyes shot hot daggers at Sally. “So I’m not good enough to even be your servant?”

  “You know that’s not what I meant,” Sally said.

  “Assistant, dear.” In a distinctly maternal gesture, Frigga ran her fingers over Opal’s long ponytail. “It’s an honored position, created specifically for you. You are in no way indentured to Sally. Not really. The two of you will figure it out. In time. Now, best finish up your preparations. I imagine you’ll be leaving shortly.”

  Frigga left the two young witches staring uneasily at each other.

  Opal crossed her arms tightly over her chest. “I’m older than you are. I’m more experienced.”

  “I don’t know about that last part,” Sally retorted. “I mean, I have battled Køjer Devils. I’ve faced Frost Giants and ancient Irish deities.”

  Opal scoffed. “You faced one Irish deity, and she backed down before anything happened. And you said yourself that the Frost Giants turned out to be harmless. Or practically harmless.”

  Sally stood up. “I faced all three of the sisters of The Morrigan, Opal.” She felt the heat rising in her cheeks and worried that the nausea from the hot mineral soak might return. “And there’s plenty that happened. My roommate died.”

  Opal dropped her gaze but kept her arms crossed. “Okay. I’m sorry. But still. You know what I mean.”

  Sally exhaled in a short huff and looked away into the trees. She did know. None of this was Opal’s fault. “For what it’s worth, I didn’t know Frigga was going to do that.”

  Opal’s mouth was hard. “No?”

  “Sometimes I think it would better if I weren’t the Rune Witch at all.” Sally sniffed back quick, unexpected tears.

  Opal kicked at the dirt with the toe of her hiking boot. “That’s ridiculous, Sally.”

  “So is you being my assistant!” Sally threw her hands in the air. “You’re a grad student. You’ve done way more stuff that matters, like cleaning up the rivers. You could probably lead this plant hike without any guide at all, where I can barely tell the difference between clover and poison ivy.”

  The corners of Opal’s mouth sagged. “Which makes me the perfect choice to be your freaking magickal sidekick.” She hoisted her pack over her shoulders, buckled the hip belt, and adjusted her shoulder straps. “It’s no big deal, Sally. Like Frigga said, we’ll figure it out.”

  She stepped past Sally and headed toward the sweat lodge, following the open path through the trees that Frigga had taken.

  Sally sighed heavily and looked down at her pack. “This is just great,” she muttered to the dirt. “My one real friend, and Frigga has to go and ruin it.”

  Sally kicked the side of her backpack and heard the jars inside clink against each other.

  When Sally approached the stark border where the dust and dry grass of the open field met the cool humidity of the woods, she found Frigga chatting with the newly arrived guides. Opal, still wearing her overstuffed backpack, leaned against a tree and laughed at a joke Sally had missed.

  Their guides were a tall, skinny man and a short, rounded woman, both sporting long, black hair and deeply tanned skin. Looking them over, Sally wondered if faded blue jeans, flannel work shirts, and beat-up boots were some kind of native guide dress code. Freya was nowhere in sight.

  Sally glanced at the sweat lodge a few yards away. Wisps of smoke rose from beneath the layered deerskins. She was curious about what was going on inside, and she pondered whether she might have enjoyed the sweat more than the hot spring soak and subsequent witch spat. A bunch of sweaty men probably smelled better than the mineral pool, too.

  Frigga was suddenly at Sally’s side, gesturing her toward the edge of the forest where Opal stood with the guides. “You go get acquainted. I’ll fetch the boys.”

  Sally made her way toward the others but kept her eyes on the lodge. When Frigga threw open the animal-skin covering, a thick cloud of smoky steam and a ruckus of surprised shouts issued from within. Frigga coughed and waved the steam out of her face. “Just thought you’d like to know that your guide has arrived, dear. So, whenever you’re ready . . .”

  Frigga dropped the skin back into place and wrinkled her nose. “Awfully fragrant in there.”

  The guides mirrored the goddess’s smile. Sally thought the effect was kind of creepy, like those ghost girls from The Shining.

  “Wouldn’t be a proper sweat otherwise,” the woman chuckled.

  Thor emerged from the deerskin dome and pulled his damp towel tighter around his thick waist when he spotted Opal and Sally. In all the varied rages Sally had seen the thunder god fly into, she had never seen his skin quite the same shade of burning pink his entire body was flushing now. But instead of his usual growl, Thor offered a respectful nod to the group beneath the trees and then strode purposefully to the back of Heimdall’s pick-up truck to retrieve his clothes.

  Sally felt the eyes of the female guide boring into her. She turned to find the woman grinning at her in obvious expectation. Sally tried to smile back, and then looked away.

  Thor stood behind Heimdall’s truck and slipped on his underwear and blue jeans beneath his sweat-drenched towel before letting the sopping terrycloth drop to the dirt.

  “Was it everything you hoped it would be?” Heimdall reached into the bed of his pick-up for his clothes and pulled a t-shirt over his head.

  “Am I purified now? I definitely lost a few pounds.” Thor pulled on a long-sleeved, hooded sweatshirt. After roasting alive inside the sweat lodge, he was now shivering in the early June air. He grabbed a medium-sized backpack from the truck bed and hoisted it onto one shoulder. Not sure what he was supposed to take with him on a vision quest, he’d packed a knife and a couple of water bottles. Odin had already confiscated all of the beef jerky, candy bars, and canned beans he’d stowed away. Apparently, Thor wasn’t supposed to eat anything for the next four days. He wasn’t keen on the idea.

  He was already hungry—a queasy kind of hunger, thanks to overheating in the sweat lodge. He’d normally be cranky, swearing up and down, and kicking at the dirt. Actually, he was cranky, but he was making an effort to keep it under wraps.

  The sweat had left him red all over, though he figured it was just as likely that he’d broken out in a head-to-toe rash from struggling with his temper. Despite his recent experiments with mindful breathing, calming mantras, and even thoughts of Bonnie in her wedding dress, he was on a perpetual medium simmer. He kept his eyes down, certain that one wrong look from his mother or Rod would send him boiling over.

  If only he’d stuck one of the candy bars in his pants pocket. Thor groaned as he lifted his ridiculously light backpack. With his food supplies confiscated, he was carrying only a couple of pairs of underwear, socks, an extra shirt, a toothbrush, and a ballpoint pen and blank journal—in case he wanted to record his thoughts or compose poetry while he was exploring the wilderness. Freya’s idea. Thor thought the chances of his waxing lyrical while his belly grumbled were slim.

  Thor followed Heimdall over to meet the guides, then frowned when he took stock of the company. “I thought our cousin would be here to see me off?”

  The short, native woman caught his eye and smiled. “She is detained with other matters.” Her voice was rigid and her words clipped. “But we are your appointed guides.” She held her hand out to him, and her grip was firm and warm. “Half-Moon Coppertree. You can call me Moon.”

  “Moon,” Thor repeated her name as she withdrew her hand. “Nice.”

  “I will lead the young ladies into the wilderness.” She nodded at Opal and Sally.

  The tall, skinny man took a step toward Thor. “Hugh.”

  Thor looked him up and down. A stiff breeze could have knocked the man over. “That’s it? Hugh?”

&
nbsp; The man’s face broke into a broad, toothy grin. “Well, Hubert Black Feather, if you want to be formal.”

  “Okay. Hugh.” Thor dropped his pack onto the ground. “Anything I should know before we get started?”

  Hugh looked at Thor’s pack. “You got any food in there?”

  “Why? You hungry?” Thor cracked a smile, but no one else seemed amused. His stomach grumbled, and he cleared his throat to cover the noise. “No food. That’s the rule, right?”

  “One of ‘em, anyway.” Hugh looked Thor directly in the eye, and something cold in the man’s black-eyed stare sent a shiver down Thor’s spine. He shrugged inside his hoodie, still trying to adjust to the cool air outside the sweat lodge.

  “You got a knife?” Hugh asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Let’s see it.”

  Thor crouched down and unzipped one of his pack’s exterior pockets. He pulled out a large knife in a simple leather sheath that was older than most of the surrounding trees. Thor held it out for Hugh’s visual inspection, and he bristled when Hugh grabbed it out of his hands.

  Hugh pulled the blade out of its sheath and lifted it to the sun to judge its edge. He spun the knife in one hand and then the other. “Nice weight.” He shoved the blade back into its sheath and handed it back to Thor.

  Thor stooped to return the blade to his pack, but Hugh nudged the backpack away with the toe of one of his worn boots.

  “Leave the rest,” Hugh said. “Knife’s all you need.”

  Thor frowned. The man was tall, but not as tall as Thor or even Heimdall. He was wiry and looked almost fragile. Despite the broad grin, the way Hugh sucked in his cheeks had Thor wondering if he might be missing some of his back teeth.

  “Not even a water bottle?” Thor asked, incredulous. “Or dry socks?”

  Hugh offered a wry smile. “Everything you need’s in the woods, son. Let’s go.” Hugh turned softly on his heel and strode into the woods.